The Fall of Brandenbrass
by 5team
Summary: A pediteer on vigil is caught in an epic battle. Set roughly 185 years after the events of Monster Blood Tattoo. Will contain violence and adult language once we get into the fighty-bits.
1. Chapter 1: A Week of Vigil

"The Emperor's Own? That's a Clementine regiment. A bit far from home, aren't we, Mister Heibermann?" the clerk asked while reading Gerrymund Heibermann's vigil-papers. Gerrymund nodded, slightly angered by the clerk's almost mocking tone.  
"A vigil of one week. Your regiment must be close, for you to want to spend it here."  
The clerk looked at Gerrymund, expecting an answer. He waited a moment before concluding that the pediteer was not planning on answering. He stamped a wax seal on the paper.  
"Your vigil is approved. Enjoy your stay in Brandenbrass."

Mr. Heibermann tossed his luggage onto the bed of his assigned room. He removed his baldric of orient and sable, and removed his shako. He replaced his issued leuc and rouge frock coat with a sable one of more civilian tastes. This week, he was not a pediteer; he was a simple man, looking only to fulfill his own goals. He left his room to set about his first: finding a stout drink and good company.

A bugle call awoke him, as it did every morning. Gerrymund rolled over and covered his head with his pillow. It was no use. He could still hear the last notes of the bugle, followed by a cry of the date: Meerday, Prior 14th, HR 1786. The third day of his vigil. He rolled out of bed, his head protesting. Raising a hand to his forehead, he found a large knot above his left eye. What had he done last night? Something with guns and beanbags. He pushed the matter from his mind as he dressed. His plan for the day was to see the war-rams, and to spend some time exploring the beaches, docks, and quays. His breakfast was eaten in the mess before he proceeded to the docks. He walked among boats of all types, from military rams-of-the-main to antique sailing ships owned by wealthy civilians, asking questions to the vinegaroons and laborers. For middens, he feasted at a nearby restaurant, the Nicked Nadderer. His gut freshly filled, Gerrymund was leaving the restaurant when a nearby crash startled him. Rubble fell from a tower about a block away, a gaping hole in its side. He barely had time to think before another building was struck by something, this time a one-story home in front of him had a hole blown all the way through. Looking to his right, he saw a cannonball stuck in the street not six paces away. He heard someone yell, "We are attacked!"


	2. Pediteer's Pamphlet, Issue No 1

**The Pediteer's Pamphlet, Issue No. 1**

Well-of-day! Thank you for purchasing the first of our pamphlets on the lives of the soldiers of our Empire's Most Honorable Military and Navy. We hope this series does well to inform you on the customs and lifestyles of our pediteers, vinegaroons, and anyone else who serves for Ol' Barney.

-On Vigils:

Every year, each regular in the Imperial Army is given a day of travel and one week's vigil (officers are generally given two) to spend where they wish. Most spend it either at their home or in a city close to where their regiments are stationed. Each regiment has their own set of clerks, one of whom's job is to keep track of these vigils within their regiment. When one goes on vigil, they are afforded free room and food in any military garrison of their choosing. To access these, they must show their vigil-papers which where given to them by their regiment's clerk. These papers show the person's rank, name, regiment, amount of time on vigil, and the start and end dates of the vigil, and must be approved by one of the clerks of the garrison the pediteer wishes to stay with.

-On Regiments:

Each major city and region has atleast one infantry regiment to call their own. For example, High Vesting is a major city, and so has the 3rd High Vesting Regiment of Foot. However, those people along the Conduit Vermis between Winstermill and Makepeace would belong to the 23rd Upper Sparrowdowns Regiment of Foot. Regiments may either be filled with drafts or by voluntary recruitment. The Emperor's Own Regiment of Foot (also known as the 1st Clementine) is an "elite" (better equipment, better-yet-harsh training, fiercely disciplined) force voluntarily recruited out of Clementine. Other regiments, mostly towards the Soutlands, have a sort of hatred for the Emperor's Own, who they claim get better treatment just for being on the Emperor's doorstep.

-A bit of Trivia:

People with the ranks of pediteer 3rd, 2nd, or 1st class are simply called "Mister" or "Missus", while officers are called by their ranks.

-On Matters:

The Empire has been at war with the sedorner states to the west for about five years. These states have grown in both size and power in the last 50 years or so, and have enough soldiers to put up quite the challenge with the Empire. They have been known to use monsters and gudgeons in combat.


	3. Chapter 2: Rushing to Aid

Gerrymund ran through the streets, dodging around anything in his path. Crashes rang out from all over the city, with the occasional explosion from the impact of an explosive cannonball. How did the enemy manage to get this much artillery? Did they have the Brigandine kings to thank, or maybe some other power waiting to replace the Haacobins? He pondered these thoughts as he ran, and almost missed an important detail: he was passing bodies. Bodies with puffy red skin and blood trailing from their eyes, noses, and mouths. Fumoshot! his brain cried. Gerrymund stopped in his tracks. Sure enough, about a block ahead of him a thick yellow-green haze churned and tumbled menacingly. He could barely make out the ball from which it emanated. He promptly covered the lower half of his face with his sleeve and ran down an alley to his left. Seconds later, he was deposited onto a street with a great view of the Grume. He could see a fleet of the Imperial rams casting off to meet an incoming party flying the colors of Jykallis, one of the Sedorner states; diagonal stripes of cadmia and chloris with a rouge circle in the center.  
"Damn, they're giving us all they've got," he mumbled to himself.

Gerrymund dashed into the barracks, and threw on his uniform. After stopping by the armory, he arrived at the evolutions yard to find several platoons lining up and preparing to march. In the midst was a man bearing the uniform of a major and barking orders to men that were scurrying about. Gerrymund jogged up to him and saluted. The officer turned to him, with a hint of confusion in his eyes.  
"Yer not one of ours. What brings ye here?"  
"Sir, I'm Pediteer 1st Class Gerrymund Heibermann of the Emperor's Own Regiment of Foot. I'm here on vigil. When I realized we were under attack, I ran here to offer what help I could."  
"As ye should." The major looked him over. "I don't care what anyone else might say, you Emperor's Men know how to fight. Ye can fall in with 2nd Platoon over there." He motioned to a block of men behind Gerrymund. Gerrymund saluted and fell in with the platoon. He positioned himself in the back row, forcing the two other men to slide over into the windows of the rows ahead. The row was now a row of three, with the others being rows of five. With everyone standing in attention, Gerrymund used his eyes to look around. His rouge-based uniform stood starkly at odds with all the sable ones in the block. Before he could think anything more, the major turned and addressed the blocks.  
"Alright! I want the 1st and 4th Platoons reinforcing the walls. You officers may break apart as ye wish. Go now, and prepare to defend yer city." The platoons marched off urgently, leaving only three other blocks at the major's disposal.  
"The rest of ye'll be with me. Our lurksmen tell us that they only have a small land force meant to protect their guns. We're going to sally out and charge the guns from the south. Our other regiment'll bring some platoons to attack from the east. Those guns are wreaking havoc on the city, probably to prepare for a larger attack. If we can't stop them from firing, I'm afraid we'll have no city to protect. So! Captains, move yer platoons into formation outside the gates. We attack on the toll of the first dogwatch."


	4. Chapter 3: A Nice Conversation

_Hmm. Burdicas was wrong; it seems they can march straight._ Gerrymund thought. He had heard stories from other members of his regiment about how the "Soutland hick" regiments were a bunch of uneducated and undisciplined imbeciles that couldn't hold their own against a few calendars, much less an opposing army. As if on cue, the man in front and to the left of him turned his head half around to peer at Gerrymund with one eye.  
"Hey, Clementine. What ye doing way down here?"  
"I was on vigil."  
"Week didn't turn out how you planned, eh?" The man paused.  
"I, uh, have to ask; why're you all down here instead of in the Emperor's lap, eh?"  
"We've been anticipating an attack such as this for awhile. My reg-" Gerrymund cut himself off, realizing he'd already said too much.  
"What was that? I didn't catch what ye were saying."  
The soldier to the right turned. Gerrymund was a bit surprised to see the face of a woman.  
"I think he was about to tell us where his regiment's stationed."  
"That so? Then finish, boy. We'd love to know."  
"I don't think he wants us to know."  
"Oh, he has to keep it a secret. Safe from sedorner spies and all that."  
"Quiet." Gerrymund growled.  
"Oh, watch out, he's getting angry. I think we hit a sore spot."  
"In case you two haven't noticed, I out rank you both, and I said be quiet."  
Both soldiers turned to get a clearer look at his uniform.  
"So ye do," the man said. He turned to the woman.  
"That's Clementine for you." He said before falling silent.

A commanding voice erupted from the front.  
"Company, halt! Form three rows, first row make ready to fire."


	5. Chapter 4: The Midst of Battle

"Charge! The fate of our city depends on it!"  
The lines surged forward, rushing to meet the enemy. The sable and leuc wave slammed into the wall of cadmia and violet. A single rouge dot could be found at the front of the wave, fighting for his life.

Gerrymund shoved his bayonet into the chest of his opponent. With a yell, the man fell to the ground clutching his chest. Gerrymund yanked out his blade just in time to use the body of his musket to block an incoming attack from one of the man's comrades He pushed his enemy's blade away and again took a stab at the chest. His attack missed as his opponent side-stepped and forced his own bayonet forward. The attack hit Gerrymund's shoulder, but was stopped by his proofing. Rolling his shoulder with the force of the blow, just as he'd been taught, he brought his musket forward. His attacker had no time to react as inertia carried him forward, impaling himself on Gerrymund's bayonet. He pulled his bayonet out of the man and spun around to look towards the hill. His comrades had broken the enemy's lines, and were almost upon the cannons.

Shoulder and lungs aching, Gerrymund finally made it to the top of the hill. A few of his comrades were already there, dispatching the artillery's remaining foot guards with a few shots. He rushed up to the nearest cannon, whose barrel he could just see over the makeshift fortifications. He was within an arm's length of the cannon when a figure jumped onto the barrel. Gerrymund barely had time to think as this new foe released an inferno from his elongated snout.


	6. Chapter 5: The Pyrricist

Gerrymund threw himself to the ground and rolled beneath the cannon. He looked over his shoulder to see the men that had been following him had been burned to a crisp. Bile rose from his gut, but he managed to choke it down. Despite being a soldier for nearly five years, he still could not fathom a fate worse than burning to death.

His foe hopped off the cannon and seemed to pace around.

"Hmm... I was sure there were four."

The hoarse whisper was as close to an unholy voice as Gerrymund could imagine. It was the voice of a pyrricist, a pyrophlogistinator, a fire-spitter. Gerrymund had only seen one other of this man's ilk, and that was with the happy luck of seeing it from afar. He gripped his musket and and steeled himself to attack. The fire-spitter turned and faced the cannon.

With a ferocious cry, Gerrymund burst out from under the gun. He thrust his bayonet at his enemy's chest, but the attack missed; the man sidestepped out of danger. Gerrymund recovered quickly and spun around. Now that he was in the open, Gerrymund could see the man's features. He was of similar age to Gerrymund, and had slick black hair. A large snout protruded from his face , with two bulbous sacs where the bridge of his nose should be. His almost-glowing red eyes did nothing but enhance his already monstrous appearance.

"So there ye be." the pyrricist whispered as he turned to face his attacker. He opened his maw.

In the brief milliseconds before he released his horrific fire, the sacs on his snout were emptied, forcing a mixture of gases into his mouth, where they were ignited by organs similar to those of a lahzar. The fire burst forward and, again, Gerrymund had to duck and roll to avoid being roasted alive. He brought himself to a crouch and raised his musket. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Gerrymund's eyes widened. In his fight to survive, he had neither the time nor the mind to reload his gun, and now it was to cost him his life. The pyrricist released another inferno. It was all Gerrymund could do to throw himself to his right. The fire caught his left shoulder, searing a hole through his coat and leaving his arm with a painful burn. Gerrymund scrambled to his feet, only to have to dodge another of his foe's blasts. He landed next to the body of one of his enemy's fallen grenadiers. Thinking fast, he grabbed a grenade from the man's belt and lobbed it at the pyrricist just as the man was about to attack. He rolled away and curled into a ball with his head covered.

The pyrricist released his inferno, causing the airborne grenade to explode with an ear-shattering bang. Shrapnel pierced the fire-spitter's body, ripping organs and severing nerves. A single bit of metal punctured one of the gas-filled sacs. The gases combusted, causing the pyrricist's head to explode in a violent and gory rain of bits.

Gerrymund tentatively stood. He cautiously walked over to the body of his foe and kicked it. Though short, that had definitely been one of the hardest fights of his life. He went back to the cannons and leaned on one of the wheels. He closed his eyes to enjoy the short moment relative peace and safety.


End file.
